


Shelter in the Storm

by Blenderx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, It was a dark and stormy night..., Mystery, No Plot/Plotless, POV Lestrade, Paternal Lestrade, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blenderx/pseuds/Blenderx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something appears to be very wrong with Sherlock when he shows up at Lestrade's doorstep late one stormy evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters and series not mine, just borrowing them, not making a profit, etc. etc. All in good fun.
> 
> (SPOILER ALERT) This sort of takes place between S3 episodes 2 and 3. Within the month after John's wedding, but before he finds him in the drug den. Its a bit AU, however, since I've set this during a colder time of year.
> 
> Let me know what you think.

 

Its already late, and Greg Lestrade is in his bathroom getting ready to go to bed ( _Alone, because the wife has gone to her 'women's book club'._ He knows where she really is, but can't bring himself to think directly on it. _She won't be back tonight, I know that. She'll tell me tomorrow she and her lady friends had a bit too much fun during their discussion, along with a bit too much wine, so she stayed over in Lucille's guest room for the night. She'll have showered there, too._ He's already helped himself to an extra pint at the pub before coming home to his dark, empty house.). He's brushing his teeth when he's startled by a couple of weak knocks on his front door.

"Who the 'ell could that be?" He mutters and spits the toothpaste from his mouth into the sink. Outside, he hears the crash of thunder in the sky and relentlessly heavy rain hitting the roof. Its been the devil out all day. He'll be lucky if he doesn't end up with a cold after having spent a good portion of his day out in it, at a murder scene over by the river. (Pointless as that was. All the evidence was long washed away and it was clear the man hadn't even been killed there besides... He might have to bring Sherlock in on this one, but he wanted to give his own team a solid shot at it first... _So who'd be out in this weather, then? And at this hour?_ )

He can't see much of anything through the spy-hole, except for a dark figure huddled close to the door, sheltering from the storm. He opens it cautiously as another heavy burst of thunder rattles the neighborhood and is more than a little surprised to see a sopping wet Sherlock-bloody-Holmes standing there. He's only been to Greg's place once before, and he broke in that time. ( _The bastard. Could've just knocked then too, I was home and damned if he didn't know it, but he's always got to do things his own way, doesn't he? Lucky I didn't arrest him._ He's always had a bit too much patience for the younger man. More than maybe was good for either of them, he couldn't help thinking sometimes _._ )

"Sherlock? What're you doing here?" He doesn't answer, doesn't even look at him. Its dim, but Greg can see the tremors in his shoulders and his arms, which are folded tightly over his chest, so he sighs, and opens the door wide, gesturing for him to- "Come on in then, before you freeze to death."

But the consultant detective doesn't move, not for a minute, anyway. Just stands there, dripping. Then it seems to click and he begins to, painfully slow, make his way inside, still not making eye contact.

"So! To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asks with as much cheer as he can muster after a long and miserable day, but Sherlock only remains still, and silent, his body turned away from him. Greg's smile falters and he blinks in confusion. He knows the reclusive detective doesn't like to be touched, but he can't help now reaching for his arm, and gently turning him so they're facing each other. (Something is really not right here. But what? Oh. _Could he actually be_ stupid _enough to have gone back on the-? And then show up on_ MY _doorstep?_ )

"Sherlock? Are you _high_?" This gets a vaguely startled reaction, at least, and Sherlock is shaking his head mildly to indicate 'no', finally removing his gaze from the floor to look up at him through a drapery of wet curls, before lowering it again. His eyes are bloodshot, but otherwise normal, and instinct tells Lestrade that he's being truthful in this. He knows a Sherlock under the influence, and this isn't quite it.

"Its late and I haven't got the energy for twenty questions, so you wanna tell me what you're doing here, or are you just going to continue standing there, making puddles on my floor?" Sherlock opens his mouth, seems to hesitate, then shuts it again, swallowing down whatever it was he might've said. He just stands there shivering pitifully until Greg can't take it any longer. ( _Whatever this is, I don't like it._ )

He clasps his hands together. "Right then. Take off your coat and I'll go grab some towels so you can dry off a bit, yeah?"

He walks away to retrieve the towels, shaking his head, and trying to shake off the sinking feeling currently making its home in his gut. After a couple of years grieving and regretting the man's (who he does consider in a strange kind of a way, a friend) death, its hard not to feel a bit... _protective?_ at times, now that he's back with them, ( _Bit pissed as well_ , _putting us all on like that and for so long. but mostly... yeah, its just good have him around again. In small doses,_ he thinks wryly.), but he doesn't want to make something out of what is probably nothing, either.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

With a couple of towels in his arms, Lestrade makes his way back into the living room, where he expects Sherlock to have wandered into by now, but its empty, so he makes his way back over to the entryway where he does find him, still standing there hunched over in the alcove, still in his Belstaff, and he doesn't seem to have moved at all, except to allow his arms to drop to his sides, where they hang limply now, droplets of water making their way slowly down to his fingertips where they fall to the now-sizable puddle on his tiled floor.

He stands there for a moment, brow furrowed, trying to make heads or tales of whatever is going on with the lanky detective, until he settles on quietly offering-

"Let me help you with that." And he's put down the towels to help Sherlock in removing his great coat. Its waterproof, he knows, as he hangs it up on the stand next to them, but he's still managed to soak himself straight through. Greg proceeds to carefully unwrap the omnipresent scarf, which is heavy and stiff now with icy rainwater, from around his neck, and drapes a towel over his shoulders. Sherlock makes no effort to assist in any of this. Hardly seems to be aware of anything at all, actually.

Then suddenly it occurs to him, and he could've kicked himself for not realizing it sooner, as it sends an icicle through his own core:

"Sherlock, are you injured? Has something happened?" He asks urgently, adding, "Do you know where John is?" ( _Because you hardly ever see one without the other, do you? So if something's happened to the one, it's a good bet the other's been involved as well._ ) He tries to catch his gaze, but he remains unresponsive, except to incline his head almost imperceptibly toward him, teeth chattering. Its a good bet ( _because marriage changes things, doesn't it? For some people, anyway._ ) that John Watson is safe at home with his lovely new wife ( _or perhaps still on their honeymoon? Italy, I think it was?_ ), but there's still the matter of Sherlock himself, showing up at his doorstep, late in the evening, apparently having spent quite some time in this nasty downpour happening outside, shivering and semi-catatonic (which, its not _unusual_ for the eccentric genius to go semi-catatonic when deep in thought during a tough case, not acknowledging anyone or anything around him for hours at a go, he's seen that more than a couple of times, but this is somehow... different. There's something disturbing ( _and not in the usual, 'could he actually be a psychopath?' sort of way_ ) in the shadows of his face that Lestrade can't quite put his finger on.).

"Sherlock? _Sherlock_? I really need to know this. Are you injured?" He's clearly enunciating each word now, the way he would to a trauma victim on the job (and its disconcerting to find himself having to speak to his friend this way at all), and finally, _finally_ , Sherlock jerks his head in the negative. Greg lets out the breathe he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Okay. I'm just going to check you over anyway, just to be _sure_ , alright?" Sherlock blinks torpidly in his direction.

He flips a nearby switch to turn on the floodlight in the high ceiling above them, so he can see what he needs to see, and is immediately struck by how bad the younger detective (who is wincing in the suddenly much brighter light, and lowers his head even more) looks. He's shivering violently, breathes coming in short bursts and his lips have taken on a bluish hue. ( _Need to get you dry and warmed up sooner rather than later,_ He realizes grimly. _This was not a night to be out enjoying the weather with a leisurely stroll. First thing's first, though._ )

Taking a quick, fortifying breathe, he begins by carefully examining his head for any sign of injury, fully expecting to find something, anything which would explain all of this. But there's no sign of any bumps or bleeding in the wet locks, or on his forehead. No cuts or bruising or anything of the sort on what he can see of his face to indicate he'd been in an accident or altercation of some kind, either.

"Let's get this off, yeah?" and without waiting for Sherlock to make a movement, he begins peeling off his sopping wet suit jacket and sets it aside. "Shirt too, alright?" He's relieved to see Sherlock begin to make some effort now at undoing the buttons himself, but his trembling hands are slow and clumsy, so Greg bats them away after a moment to quickly unbutton and peel that off as well.

Finding no sign of injury to his now bare (except for the towel still draped over his shoulders) torso either ( _So damned skinny, though. Could count all his ribs. Is he even eating?)_ , Lestrade reaches for another towel and- "Sorry 'bout this." rubs it vigorously over Sherlock's head, until much of the wet is out of his hair, leaving the curls sticking out wildly every which way. Lestrade allows himself a smirk at the somewhat shell-shocked look on Sherlock's face.

It falls away quickly, however, as he watches Sherlock sway where he stands. "Right. You're half frozen. So it'll be off with the rest of that and I'll go find something dry for you to put on." He picks up one of Sherlock's arms and and places the towel in a limp hand. "Dry yourself off some more." He waits until, very slowly, the command seems to reach the consultant's brain, and he begins to drag the towel along his chest and arms.

Sherlock looks at him out of the corner of his eyes and Greg, not knowing what to make of what he sees in them, gives his arm a steadying squeeze, before heading back down the hall. He grabs his phone off of the kitchen counter as he passes it, and, after a quick search through his contacts, texts John Watson:

'Have u seen Sherlock today? Everything alright? -GL'.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

ch. 3

Lestrade starts to wonder if he isn't in over head here somehow, as he gathers some warm clothes to replace Sherlock's ruined suit, and if he shouldn't just take him straight to A&E. But he knows he would hate that ( _Not that I always care what Sherlock Holmes would or would not like. That'd be the day!_ ), and besides, apart from being somewhat hypothermic, there isn't any obvious sign of injury. So _no_ , he decides, he'll do what he can for him himself, here, and maybe after he gets a hot cuppa in him he'll be more to himself enough so he can tell him what he was doing out in the rain to begin with, and why he'd landed at his doorstep.

As he grabs the last of it, his mobile chirps to alert him to a new text message. It's John's reply:

JW: Not seen him since the wedding, just settling back in from the honeymoon. As far as I know everything is fine. What's up?

Well, that answers that.

'He's actually here with me. Nothing to bother you with. Give my love to Mary. -GL'

He heads back to the entryway to find Sherlock more or less as he'd left him, only his eyes are shut now as he clutches the towel around his shoulders, the others forgotten on the floor beside him.

"Alright, not quite up to your usual standards, and you'll be swimming in these, but they're comfortable and best of all, _dry_."

No response, so Greg reaches for his arm, but the instant he makes contact, Sherlock's eyes shoot open and he stumbles backward, tripping on the coat stand behind him. In his apparent panic, he resists Greg's attempts to steady him, before he falls in a heap to the floor, kicking his legs to leverage himself as far away as he can manage, until he's backed up into the corner, and all Lestrade can do is to keep the heavy stand from falling on top of him.

"Whoa, _whoa_. Sherlock, its me. Greg. What's got into you?  I'm not going to hurt you." Sherlock is shaking his head 'no' weakly and looking at him with wide eyes ( _Except he's not really seeing me, is he?_ ), and he can only just hear him muttering in a small, hitching voice but it doesn't sound like English? If he had to say, he'd guess it was something Slavic.   

"Sherlock? Sherlock. Its alright. Its Lestrade. You're at my house." He watches him with a mixture of confusion and sadness. This is so far from anything that would be considered normal for the consultant detective that at the moment he thinks he'd very much rather be on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's abrasive tirades than to be listening to... _this_.

But the energy behind his panic is fading quickly, pleas dying down to a shivering, faint whisper, so Lestrade begins to inch nearer, talking all the while:

"It's just me, Greg. Sherlock? You're very cold right now. It's alright. Let me help you. Its Greg Lestrade. I'm going to help you."

Sherlock blinks slowly and seems to return again to his senses, if only a little. He nods his head weakly, looking even more tired and haunted.

"Cold," he breathes out.

"Yeah." He offers agreeably. "I've got some warm clothes for you right here. We need to get all those wet ones off of you."

Sherlock is nodding distantly.

With some effort (and a bit of awkwardness, which, owing not a little to his current state, Sherlock didn't seem to be much aware of), he manages to get him into some dry clothes. He was right, Greg's sweater and old tracksuit bottoms are large on the thin detective. He looks all too young in the over-sized garments.

"Come on now, up off the floor" His muscles groan as he lifts himself and reaches down to help Sherlock stand, barely (he nearly falls once, and Greg just barely manages to catch him and keep him on his feet), and cautiously guides him to the wide, overstuffed chair near the gas fireplace, which comes to life at the flick of a switch. He tosses a blanket over the still shivering man's shoulders, satisfied that he's on his way to being warmed up and heads to the kitchen to put on the kettle and make a sandwich ( _he's too skinny..._ ).

While he works, he contemplates the usefulness of calling Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's shadowy and powerful older brother, but decides that might cause more problems than it solves.

At that moment he hears what he assumes to be Sherlock's mobile, which he finds still in his coat pocket in the entryway, and miraculously has survived the downpour. He only hesitates a moment in consideration of Sherlock's privacy before swiping the screen to look at his messages, hoping to get some clues as to what's happened this evening.

The new alerts are a series of pictures from a contact merely labelled 'Fifty-Three' which feature a thin, balding and bespectacled man making his way from a chauffeured black car into a well-lit building. He has no idea what use this could be.

Checking through his other messages for more clues, he comes across several between Sherlock and Mycroft, but these are old, and don't shed a lot of light (except on the level of dysfunction in their relationship):

MH: This is what sentiment gets you, Sherlock. Have I really got to remind you again of Redbeard?

SH: Shut. Up. Mycroft.

MH: Don't be so childish, little brother.

and a week or so later:

MH: Have you given it some thought?

SH: No, because the matter is entirely dependent on YOU.

MH: It is definitely NOT and if you could ever be bothered to PAY ATTENTION you should have realized that already.

SH: Oh why don't u go eat another slice of cake, dear brother, or are you still on that diet of yours? You were half a stone heavier last we saw each other.

There are also more pictures, again from contacts labelled numerically: Of a rubbish bin, of a derelict building, and of a woman with dark hair and professional attire.

There's a text from Sherlock to Lestrade himself, from 4 days ago:

SH: The Piatkowski case, in today's Guardian, pg 2. Clearly the brother-in-law, they were having an affair. Obvious because of the watch he is wearing.

He'd been right, of course, and after a little digging on Scotland Yard's part to confirm the connections, an arrest was made. It never ceased to impress him what Sherlock could do.

Finally, some texts between Sherlock and John:

SH:  Bored

SH:  Bored

SH:  Why must everyone be so irreparably DULL?

JW: Leave me alone, I'm on my honeymoon. See you soon.

JW: And be good to Mrs. Hudson. She told me about the experiment in the cupboard.

JW: We got in last night. Expected to see you. Want to meet up? I could bring over some of Mary's curry.

JW: Sherlock?

JW:  Alright, go ahead and sulk.  I'll come round when you're through.  Let me know.

There's no reply from Sherlock.

Greg turns off the mobile, and finishes up the tea.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

ch 4

Greg, hands full with tea and sandwiches, makes his way back into the living room.

"Hope you're warmed up now, got some tea here and-" He stops short, because Sherlock isn't listening. He's lifted his feet onto the edge of the chair cushion, blanket hugged tightly around him, and his head has fallen gently to the side to rest on his shoulder. He's fast asleep.

For a moment Lestrade considers waking him, because he really could use the warm tea and a bite to eat, but he supposes he needs sleep more and, not to be soppy and still wholly confused as to what's brought him here in the first, safety and comfort.

So he sits on the couch across from him and tucks into the intended offerings himself, muted telly on a recorded football match. His gaze frequently finds its way back to his wayward guest.

 _That episode? earlier. What was that? Some kind of waking nightmare?_ As a rule, apart from anything to do with his work (because while he's on a case, he is more than happy to show you _exactly_ what he's feeling, usually annoyance at those around him or giddiness about a particularly juicy bit of evidence), Sherlock is so reticent that it could be hard to imagine he experiences such ordinary things as nightmares at all. _But he's not superhuman after all, is he? His leap off St. Bart's proved that. Even though it was faked, it revealed something about him, didn't it? Had to have..._

Sherlock sighs and shifts minutely in the chair, but continues to slumber. _Its like he knows_ , Greg shakes his head resignedly. Sherlock Holmes is one puzzle he's unlikely ever to solve.

Another hour passes, the rain has stopped now, and Greg continues to watch over him, feeling oddly reluctant to go to bed and leave his self-imposed charge unattended, and not just because he doesn't want him rummaging through his things ( _Not that there's any such thing as 'privacy' when it comes to someone who can tell everything about you with little more than a glance._ ). But Sherlock, hair mussed and youthful features entirely relaxed, is in deep and clearly won't be waking anytime soon. He's still and quiet in a way Greg has rarely seen. He's still uneasy about the whole night's events, but what can he do? And there's work in the morning...

x

The light and noises of London waking works its way through Lestrade's sleep and he opens his eyes only reluctantly. He feels as if he's only just laid down... then he remembers that he practically has. He dresses quickly, its still quite early and he has a couple of hours until he should be leaving for work but he wants to check on Sherlock and hopes to get some answers.

Entering the living room, he expects the lanky detective to still be asleep on his overstuffed chair but finds it empty, blanket tossed sloppily over one of the arms. Looking around, he sees Sherlock's coat is gone as well, and Lestrade's shoulders fall. He's gone, and not a word. _What did I expect?_ Still, he's disappointed and worried despite himself, and decides to get on with his day with breakfast.

He's startled just then by the bathroom door swinging open down the hallway, and Sherlock striding toward him, fixing his collar as he moves. He looks as posh and put together as he ever has, full get up, even his scarf. No sign whatsoever of it all, including himself, having been sodden just hours before. _How does he_ do _that?_

"Oh do stop standing there with your mouth agape, Lestrade, it makes you look duller than usual." _So that's how this is going to go._

"Back to yourself then? Want some breakfast?" He makes his way into the kitchen, and Sherlock follows, keeping to the opposite side of the breakfast bar.

"Back to myself" Sherlock answers almost inaudibly, and then in a normal tone, "No, I think I should be going now, I'm sure I've worn my welcome."

"I can spare some toast and eggs." There's no point trying to force answers out of him, he's a stubborn git on the best of days, even when they're _supposedly_ _working together,_ but if he can get him to stick around just a while longer...

Sherlock is still definitely not entirely himself, because he accepts a plate after all, with a small, hesitant but grateful smile on his face, and keeps his eyes to his plate as they eat.

Its never really a comfortable silence with a Holmes, and definitely not this morning.

"If you're not working on anything at the moment" Greg pauses, giving his companion a chance to tell him if this all is to do with a case, "... I've got a couple of stumpers I'll let you take a look at. Funny one up in the North End. Got all the boys scratching their heads."

He recounts some details of the case, hoping to peak the consulting detective's interest and get him talking, or at least his disdain at their inability to pluck theories out of thin air as he so often seems to do. But Sherlock is still oddly silent and it isn't clear how much is getting through.

As soon as he's eaten his last bite, Sherlock is rising.

Lestrade almost doesn't say it, but _this might be my only chance..._

"It might help to talk to a friend. Doesn't have to be me." Sherlock stills. "But I am your friend, Sherlock." Pale eyes raise to meet his with furrowed brow. He sees in them confusion, surprise, fear, and an inexpressibly deep gratitude before the spell is broken and they shutter, familiar mask firmly in place again, and Sherlock is giving him a hard, searching look. The consultant opens his mouth once, then snaps it shut.

After a moment, "Your victim in the North End," baritone voice intones, "You'll find he was quarreling with his business partner. That's your most likely perp." _So he_ was _listening._

"But how can you know-?" Sherlock's only response is to lift an eyebrow. "Right. I'll look into it."

Sherlock smiles and turns toward the hallway. Lestrade lets him get as far as his hand on the front doorknob before-

"No matter how hard you try, Sherlock, you're not going to be able to stop being human." Sherlock turns and inclines his head but doesn't turn around. The shoulders of his Belstaff rise and fall in a shrug.

And with that, he's out the door.

FIN


End file.
